


We Are Made Wise

by scarletjedi



Series: Third by Experience [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Time Travel Fix-It, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-08-15 05:39:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8044498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletjedi/pseuds/scarletjedi
Summary: The Ring has been found and the Enemy has returned. Armed with a knowledge of an ever-distancing future, Gimli and a Company of Fellows sets out in a desperate attempt to fool the agents of the enemy until they can destroy the One Ring. Meanwhile, Thorin brings forces North to war with the dark creatures amassed there, in an attempt to foil the enemy before the War could begin in ernest--But new events bring new problems, and the future has never looked darker.





	1. Uncertain Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> here we go again...
> 
> (much love to kooriicolada, who drew the amazing cover!)
> 
> You want more of me? Want to see my ramblings, fan works, and sneak peaks? Or is a story you love not updated when you expect it to be? Check out my [tumblr](scarletjedi.tumblr.com) for status updates and more!

“We are made wise not by the recollection of our past, but by the responsibility for our future.” ― George Bernard Shaw.

  
  


Gandalf sat. And smoked. And thought. 

The longer he sat, the more he thought, and the more he thought, the more he smoked. 

“If I did not know better, Mithrandir, I would think you destined to become a cloud!” came Glorfindel’s voice, preceding him out of the darkness like a beam of sunlight on an otherwise grey day. Gandalf raised a shaggy eyebrow at the bright elf, but it did nothing to dim his dazzling smile. 

If Lady Galadriel was the light of the sacred trees, silver and softly golden, then Glorfindel was the sun—burning white and splendid. 

“Destined,” Gandalf muttered around the stem of his pipe. “Hm.” 

Glorfindel stepped up next to where Gandalf sat on an outcropping of rock, down in the yet uncleared section of mountain. It was a good place as any to sit and think—and he would be undisturbed, besides. Or—that had been the plan. Instead, he had Glorfindel towering above him—at easily seven feet, the elf could do little else—frowning an exaggerated pout.

“Better make that a thundercloud. What bothers you so, old friend?”

Gandalf’s eyes snapped to him. “Did I not just say?” he barked. “Destiny! The fate of the world!” 

Glorfindel narrowed his eyes. “Young Gimli says we escaped darkness before, so it may yet be done again. Difficult, sure, and worrisome, but—“ he cut himself off, tilting his head. “That is not what has you so aggrieved.”

“No,” Gandalf said. “No it is not. It may be nothing—it is probably no matter.” 

“And how often has that truly been the case?” Glorfindel asked. 

Gandalf scowled with little heat—just once in his life, he’d like to be _wrong_. 

“It is said, if any are again yet found, it would spell a final doom for Middle Earth,” Gandalf said, and he watched as Glorfindel’s eyes widened in understanding. “It may not be, for there was no ‘finding’ to be had, but—“

“Gimli forged a silmaril,” Glorfindel breathed, and closed his eyes, pained. “Oh, Elbereth!” 

“Indeed,” Gandalf said, and placed his pipe once more between his teeth. “Let us pray that in our efforts to heal, we are not simply sealing our doom.” 

***

_"Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens,”_ Gimli muttered to himself. He had faced greater dangers than this--he had stood in the face of all the darkness of Mordor and was not cowed, for Mahal’s sake. Yet it did little good—his heart still hammered in his chest, his knees still trembled, and his guts still churned as if with water. In the mirror, his reflection was ashen and his eyes too wide. 

Legolas appeared behind him, out of the shadows of their rooms. Gimli could not see Legolas’s face with the mirror angled as it was, but he could see his long, pale hands settle on his hair, could feel their weight, warm and comforting, on the sides of his head.

Gimli sighed. “I don’t think I can do this,” he said, and hated the way his voice broke, leaving his last words near whispered. 

“You can,” Legolas said gently, his strange woodland vowels soft as flickering candlelight. “Because you are strong. You will because it is right, and you have never lacked the strength to do what is right.” 

“Still," Gimli said, as Legolas’s hands fell to his shoulders. "I am glad you are with me, my husband. What strength I lack, I have ever been able to draw from your presence.” He reached up with both hands, placing them over Legolas’s, running his thick fingers over the delicate bones, knuckles, and the still-strange bumps of rings Gimli had found and resized for his husband over the long winter. 

Several months had passed since the council of Erebor, and a harder winter than Gimli had yet to experience. The snows were deep around the mountain, and the wind biting cold. With no stores and the weather driving even the winter game away, there had been times that Gimli wondered who, if any of them, would live to see the spring. Their lives were indebted to King Thranduil, who continued to send what supplies he could to the Mountain. It was never enough, really, but the deliveries came always in the last possible moment, and they continued. 

It was a trying time for the new King Under the Mountain, and Gimli was happy to say that Fili had risen to the occasion. He still had his fair share of doubts, and there were days when the cold was too much for Fili’s recent wounds. Used to being a more active dwarf, Fili hard took the days he could not get up from bed, and it often led to several more days when he could not escape the darkness in his own mind. (“Runs in the family,” Dain had joked darkly one night when supplies were such that they had naught but ale for their supper. “And Family is the answer for it,” Thorin had said, but his face had reamined hidden in shadow for some time after.)

All winter, the Lady Dis watched her son with sadness in her eyes, for she felt his pain as if it were her own, and Lord Dain would take up the mantle of regent and do what he could in Fili’s name until Fili could once again gain his feet. “I know what it’s like, to have your body betray you when everyone and their brother is looking at you to fix their problems,” he had said calmly to Kili one night, when, in his own frustration on his brother’s behalf, Kili had accused Dain of seeking the kingship for himself. Kill had paled, as if he had just remembered the beginning of Dain's own rule, and no more was said on the matter. 

But there were times, when the cold was not so cold and the snow not quite so deep, when Fili’s golden head could be seen hobbling around the mountain. He walked with a cane now--the cane, elaborately carved from oak and inlaid with gold, had been a surprising gift from Thranduil—it had arrived at midwinter with a note that simply read “for the King.” There had been many at court who seemed inclined to take offense on Fili’s behalf, the cane was perfectly balanced and heavy—perfect for supporting the weight of a full grown dwarf with a bum knee. Somehow, Fili was sure, the cane would also make a perfect cudgel, if necessary. So, Fili had quietly—yet publicly—started to use the cane, and after a few days the murmurs had died down. Oin had said that Fili must use it for at least the year, but that he might find his need less over time, until he reached such an old age that his need became inevitable. Gimli did not think the lessening of need was happening at a pace Fili would have preferred. But Fili seemed glad enough to be up and around, and carried himself with a dignified sway with just a hint of his previous cocky gait. His mood had picked up considerably a few weeks before, when the few pregnant goats began to foal, and there was fresh goats’ milk and cheese and butter once more. The whole mountain seemed to waken, then, and take heart. 

Spring was here; they would live to see the summer. 

Spring thaw, however, meant travel could resume as the ways and paths cleared, and this new fellowship of theirs was due to depart in only a few days. Gimli’s hair had run out of time. 

Gimli knew, despite the plan to have his hair cut and bleached of color, that he would not actually look all that hobbitish—he had too _much_ hair, still, over his cheeks and on his arms. The only place where he _didn’t_ have too much hair was his feet—and there, he didn’t have enough! He was taller than any hobbit he’d seen, even Pippin after his experiences with the ent draught, but hobbits were yet unknown in this part of the world, and many, when they saw dwarves, stopped looking as soon as they saw the beard. As, to date, only Gollum had ever truly seen Bilbo with the Ring, many had been quick to assure him that their ruse was unlikely to be discovered. 

Further, as Gandalf had explained, the enemy did not see with true sight, and his servants’ gazes were forever darkened to all but shadow. As long as the ring remained unworn, the enemy could not truly see him. 

It was not, in Gimli’s estimation, a good enough reason to _hobble_ him for the length of their journey. In addition to his hair, Gimli was to wear hobbit-style clothing (no armor, save for a coat of mail under his vest), could carry no weapon but Sting (loaned to him, reluctantly, by Bilbo), and a pair of cleverly designed soft leather shoes meant to mimic hobbit feet. They wouldn’t hold to close scrutiny, but any who came that close would find themselves with other problems to deal with. Dori had made them, with help from Bombur, and they would hold as all true dwarven craft would, but they added length to his feet and though he had been practicing with them for most of a month, he still found them difficult to walk in, let alone fight.  
Luckily, they were to take ponies as far as they could, all the way to Lorien if possible. 

“We were supposed to take our Bill through the mountains, as well,” Gimli had grumbled. “You saw how well that turned out.” Legolas had looked at him with sympathy, and Gimli had borne it with ill grace. Legolas did not have to disguise himself, after all. No one was asking him to cut his ears, or hide his luminescent skin or anything else that made Legolas elven. Luckily, Legolas had understood where Gimli found his temper, and Gimli was able to apologize without causing him much distress. 

Now, Legolas squeezed Gimli's shoulders, placing a kiss on the crown of Gimli’s head and holding his lips there for a long moment. “Always,” he said against Gimli’s hair, and Gimli forced a chuckle. 

“See? You will miss it as much as I.” 

“Aye,” Legolas said, turning his head to press his cheek instead. “But I have seen your hair change before, and you are still young yet. It will grow back, my love.”

“Hmph,” Gimli grumbled. “All right. But get it over with.” 

Gimli turned from the mirror. He’d do it—it was his duty and he would do it, Mahal curse it, but he'd be damned if he would watch. 

He heard the sliding hiss of metal on metal as Legolas lifted the shears, and Gimli closed his eyes. The first cut drew forth a shuddering breath, and when Gimli felt air on his nape, he stopped trying to hold back his sobs. Legolas, bless him, held Gimli tight until the tears slowed and they could continue. 

Deep within him, the steel in Gimli’s spine hardened like star-forged mithril, and he held steady until Legolas signaled the end by pressing Gimli’s marriage braid—bead and all—into his palm, to keep safe until it could be rebraided into Gimli’s hair. 

“Gimli?” Legolas asked, quietly. _”Meleth-nin?”_

“Aye,” Gimli said. “I’m still here.” He tightened his fingers around his braid until the bead dug into his palm. 

Later, Gimli, freshly shorn and feeling rather unmoored, slipped away from his rooms and his husband, and he climbed to the uppermost parapet. The small balcony was usually deserted, especially in winter, and even in summer it was mostly a place for ravens. It was perfect. 

With his cloak’s hood drawn against the early spring chill, Gimli sat on a stone, feeling the heat of him leach quickly away. He lit his pipe. Once again, Gimli felt himself longing for his lost supply of Old Toby. The midwinter solstice had brought a surprise - a wagon from the Iron Hills filled with small comforts in the spirit of the holiday. Dain had personally handed Gimli a box of pipeweed, a darker breed from the East with thicker, spicy smoke, that Gimli remembered the scent of fondly. He found the taste harsh, and a bit too sweet, but he really was not going to complain. Breathing deeply, he let out a long sigh, streaming smoke from his nose and mouth. 

“You look like a dragon yourself,” a warm, welcome voice said from the corner of the parapet. Surprised, Gimli fumbled his pipe, nearly dropping it as he turned to the Lady Galadriel. 

“Lady,” he said, quickly standing to bow. “There’s no need to insult me.” 

Galadriel laughed. It had been…interesting, having the Lady in residence for the winter, especially as Gimli knew she was only staying for him—for the Company. Winter posed little threat to her, or to Glorfindel, who also stayed. HIs presence was like summer (and Gimli had seen more than one dwarf try to bask in it), but the Lady was bright like the end of August—full of summer's heat, but with the nights growing colder in anticipation of the coming frost. 

“You must be eager to leave. Erebor is much different from Lorien, especially in winter,” Gimli offered. Galadriel hummed, stepping forward to the archer’s railing. It came up to Gimli’s shoulders, over his head at its highest points, yet the lady measured it just over waist-high. She looked out over the desolation, still covered in snow. (The thaw would bring seeding, Gimli know, and by the time the caravans arrived, enough would be green to show how rich the expanse would someday be.)

“I will not mislead; I have longed for my trees these past months, but I have lived centuries. What is one season to the long, slow march of time?” Galadriel looked back at Gimli, over her shoulder. “And I find I have much enjoyed the company.” 

Gimli grinned, pipe between his teeth. “Aye, and Gandalf was glad of it, too,” he teased. The Istari’s respect for the Lady was plain as the nose on his face, and the continued presence of his friend had served to lighten Gandalf’s spirits--as light as they ever were, anyway. 

Galadriel laughed. It wasn’t the first time Gimli had wintered with Gandalf, but then it had been Gandalf the White in the years after the final fall of Mordor. Gandalf the _Grey_ was far too restless—indeed, Gimli would not be at all surprised if the only reason he stayed was because Galadriel was in Erebor and not back in Lorien.

“Mithrandir is often good company, yes,” Galadriel said. “I find his thoughts most keen and wise, and I find him most entertaining to talk with. But I did not mean Mithrandir, as you well know.” 

“Aye,” Gimli admitted, hopping off his bench and walking around to regain the feelings in the back of his thighs. “And on behalf of my kin and myself, I thank you.” 

Galadriel beamed, and Gimli felt his heart lift. Whatever happened, it would be all right. 

Gimli smoked his pipe, staring out over the winter-barren land, and felt his thoughts begin to darken. The little cherry flare of the embers glowed at the corner of his vision, almost uncomfortably resembling the fires that had spread during the battle. His memory of the future weighed on him; he had seen this land war torn once before, when he had from Gondor and seen the toll the War in the North had wrought. Fiercely he desired to keep the mountain from further turmoil, but the future was again uncertain. The Enemy was returned to these lands, and none were safe--not even the Hobbits, unaware in their peaceful little Shire. 

“Heavy are your thoughts,” Galadriel said, breaking Gimli from his reverie. 

“Aye, well,” Gimli said, and shrugged. “When I returned from my future, I knew the path events would take. My task was not to stop the quest from happening, but to change enough to make the outcome different. In that, I must have succeeded, for the outcome is very different.” He paused. “But now, I find that I am without guide, and once again the Enemy has returned.” He swallowed. “I fear both that my influence has been not enough to change the coming darkness, and that it has been too great and the Enemy will return with an even greater evil than before.” 

Galadriel was quiet for a long moment. “If it is comfort you wish for, I fear it is the one thing I cannot give,” she said, quietly. “I see many things in my mirror: things that were and are and may yet be, yet even I can not see the way this path is heading. Do we act to prevent our dreams, or will our action cause those dreams to come to pass? It cannot be said, for only Iluvatar knows the entirety of the great song. We may only glimpse and hope.” She smiled without humor. “This is the burden of prescience.” 

Gimli looked at Galadriel and wondered for a moment what she had seen that made her look so very melancholy. She caught him watching, and raised an eyebrow. 

“There are some things, Gimli son go Gloin, that not even the Valar can change.” 

“Aye, I know” Gimli said, looking out over the destruction brought by the dragon and war alike. “So we turn our hope to us mere mortals, more the fools we.” 

Their conversation then turned to lighter topics: the health of Gimli's family, the warming weather, the agonizingly slow courtship between Thorin and Bilbo, and the whirlwind romance that had swept up Kili and Tauriel. Gimli would never, could never, think of the Lady as an idle gossip, but she did titter like a songbird when Gimli told her of the way Thorin had flushed bright red when Bilbo first appeared in fully dwarven attire, and asked that Thorin re-braid Bilbo’s hair by “putting it back in.” 

“Hobbit hair is different, you see,” Gimli said, twinkling. “Braids don’t hold long. It’s not a problem, but Bilbo asked in ear shot of Dain and Dis both - and neither have given Thorin a moment of peace since.” 

The Lady’s laugh echoed along the mountainside, and Gimli’s cheeks hurt from his grin. The wind that blew around them finally whipped Gimli’s hood from his head, and the cold air on the back of his neck had his grin falling fast. He scrambled to grab at the hood, to pull it back up, and stopped when he felt Galadriel’s hand on his own. Gimli froze, and forced himself to drop his hands. He would have to get used to having his head seen—and the Lady had seen far deeper inside of him than this, besides. 

It took him longer than he would readily admit to look her in the eyes. 

“Such sacrifice,” she murmured. From anyone else, Gimli would have taking it as mocking, an insult to the dedication of him and his kind to their hair—a crude lack of understanding of dwarves culture that still got his blood up—but she was herself, and Gimli felt his eyes tear with the genuine sympathy of her words. 

“It’s only hair,” Gimli said, trying for levity and missing. “It will grow.” 

“Future growth does not lessen current pain,” The lady said. “Others may not recognize what you have done here, but know that I bear witness, Gimli son of Gloin.” 

Gimli closed his eyes and bowed his head. “I thank you, Lady.” 

Then, Lady Galadriel bent and kissed the top of Gimli’s head, and when Gimli looked up in surprise, she was already gone. 

Gimli remained on the parapet long after she departed, pulling his hood up once more against the chill. He was not fretting, however, no matter what his husband might have said. It simply made sense to review what he knew, to prepare and plan for possible futures. 

When even Gimli had to admit that his thoughts were just chewing gristle, he made his way back into the mountain. The sun had long since set, and the halls of Erebor were even emptier than they had been of late. 

Dwarves, underground as they lived, were not technically daylight creatures. What purpose do lights in the sky have for a race that does not see the sky nor have need of light? And yet, many dwarves elected to keep a day to night schedule that fit that of their trading partners (and, Gimli knew, to further separate them from the truly dark things of this world, the creatures that lived in shadow and moved only at night). Ultimately, that meant dwarven cities were _always_ bustling. 

It made the emptiness of Erebor all the more stark—

—and made the warmth of lived-in quarters all the brighter. Gimli couldn’t keep himself from smiling as he entered his family’s rooms. 

Gloin was standing near the fireplace, pipe smoke curling and streaking grey in his hair, gesturing with his mug of ale as he spoke. Oin was sitting in a high-backed chair, the recent fruits of Gimli’s labor—He had turned to anxious reclaiming of furniture in his down time as they neared the company’s departure date—and was nodding along with the air of a dwarf who had heard this damn story before, brother. 

But Legolas sat at the kitchen table, long fingers wrapped around his tankard, listening to Gloin’s story with total fascination. It was a sight Gimli never thought he’d see—and a sight that gave him pause, especially when he heard just what Gloin was saying. 

“…then he let loose and pissed all over the damned thing!” 

Legolas let loose a sharp peal of laughter, leaning back on his heels and clapping delightedly, as best he could while holding a mug. 

“Da!” Gimli cried out though the laughter. They had skipped this step last time, somehow, between the war and Aglarond. Everyone turned to him, his father raising his tankard. 

“There he is, my fine lad.” 

Legolas beamed at Gimli, bright as stars. “Gimli-nin,” Legolas said. “Your father has been telling stories.” There was a faint flush high on Legolas’s cheeks - just how much of that ale had he had?

“I can see that,” Gimli said, and pulled off his cloak to hang it by the door. The room grew suddenly quiet and Gimli looked up to see their mirth sobered. Legolas was staring with his elvish intensity, as if he could see Gimli’s hurt like a physical thing, and offered only love in return. Oin watched him with dark and serious eyes—like Gimli had learned some lesson Oin had never wished on him. And Gloin—

Gimli’s father was flat out staring, mouth dropped. Gimli rolled his eyes. 

“You’ll catch flies,” he said, walking further into the room. Legolas handed Gimli his tankard and Gimli drank gratefully. 

“Sorry, son,” Gloin said. “I—I didn’t know it would be today. I would have been here—“ 

“Aye, well,” Gimli said and waved him off. He walked over to the fire to warm his limbs. “Neither did I, but the time was right.” He raised a hand and ran it through his hair—the shorter length of it had tightened the curls and this fingers hit empty air far too quickly. It made something unpleasant turn over in his stomach. 

“Well,” Gloin said. "Are ye hungry, my son?” 

_Ravenous,_ Gimli thought. He’d been constantly, gnawingly hungry since—well, since Beorn’s. Adolescence. “Aye,” Gimli said. “I can eat.” 

“Though not as much, I think, as a hobbit,” Legolas teased, and Gimli fought a grin, cocking his head to consider. 

“A dwarf on a feast day can match a hobbit on a good day, but none can beat a hobbit on a feast day and a dwarf cannot feast every day.” He grinned, flashing his dimples. “Not even Bombur, and he’s undefeated at feast day games.” 

“Oh, he’d try,” Oin said. 

“Aye,” Gloin agreed, recovered and bearing a bowl of hearty soup and old bread—supper. “He’d do it, too, make no mistake.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of underestimating Bombur,” Legolas said. 

Gimli dunked his bread in the soup to soften it, and bit heartily. Spices burst across his tongue—hot peppers and smoky salt, sweet cinnamon and cloves—and it occurred to him that, in a few days time, he would be on the road once more, and it could be years before he tasted dwarven cooking again. He chewed slowly. 

While Gimli ate, Legolas began to talk, telling Gloin and Oin of the prank war that had started between Merry and Pippin in Gondor in the days of waiting for Frodo and Sam to wake—the war that had escalated quickly to involve all members of the company and only ended when Aragorn had gotten involved. 

No one pranked like the King of Gondor (and honestly, who would believe it?) and the young hobbits had to admit defeat. 

Yet to this day, Gimli snickered when someone mentioned cabbages. It was no different now, and Gimli snickered helplessly into his soup as the room roared into laughter. 

It was a good memory that had lasted Gimli the rest of his first life—this night would make a good memory as well, to bring with him to guard against the coming darkness. 

***

Bilbo sat at his desk—an overlarge and incredibly ornate beast of a thing that was gilt, not in gold and silver, but in in copper and bronze. “Writer’s metals,” Balin had assured him, tapping the side of his nose. Bilbo had no clue what that was all about. Dwarves were still a strange culture, but the desk was well large enough to hold his notes and the growing pieces of parchment that were rapidly becoming the first draft of a manuscript. A memoir. His memoir. 

The Baggins side that still lived deep within him longed for a proper journal—something to impose a sense of order on this mess. The Took half took great delight in reminding his Baggins half that there _was_ no order in a proper adventure (no matter how much that half may wish for it). Either way, Bilbo would sit at his desk when a rare free moment came, and when he put his pen to parchment the words would come—a torrent, a flood, and it was all Bilbo could do to keep up, to stay afloat in the words and not drown. His hand ached constantly, and his arm was frequently sore, but when he sat, he wrote whatever freely came to mind. 

Now, he sat and picked up the flintspark starter to light his candles (a gift from Beorn and the shifters. One giant candle could last them nearly a month as giant bees apparently made giant beeswax candles). He struggled with the mechanism, muttering to himself about helpful dwarves who still didn't understand just how much stronger they were—when a great, broad hand closed gently over his own. 

“Oh!” Bilbo said, with some surprise, looking up into a very welcome face. “Thorin! I didn’t hear you.” 

“So I gathered,” Thorin said, softly, his smile private and warm, and Bilbo melted like so much beeswax, sure he was flushed to the tips of his ears. Calmly, Thorin took the starter from Bilbo and lit the candle with a deft move, a show of dextrous strength that made Bilbo swallow thickly. 

“Your shift over then?” Bilbo asked, and Thorin nodded, humming. 

With so much of Erebor still damaged, repairs were going quite slowly. It would feel faster to focus more dwarves on a single task, working until completion—but then, while they worked, other parts of the mountain languished. It was not simply a matter of establishing priority, however; Erebor was an interconnected city, working like the innards of a clock. With only part of the mountain working, daily operations placed great strain on others, causing more damage to be dealt with. It was bad enough dealing with the aftermath of reigniting the forges (and thankfully for Bilbo’s toes in the dead of winter, they could not be easily shut down again, and had helped to warm the city). 

Thorin placed his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders, bending his head to nuzzle at Bilbo’s ear. Bilbo bit back a whimper when Thorin’s beard, longer now that Bilbo had ever seen it, brushed at sensitive skin. 

“So delicate,” Thorin murmured, his words making Bilbo shiver. “Soft and warm as a summer peach, yet more fragile than marble.” His lips, warm and soft, brushed the tip of Bilbo’s ear. 

“Oh," Bilbo breathed, and twisted on his chair to kiss his—lover? No, not yet, despite Bilbo’s—despite _both_ their desires. To call him Bilbo’s fellow, the way one would courting tweens, seemed childish. Better to call him simply _Bilbo’s_. 

Thorin rumbled deep in his chest, pressing in closer, and Bilbo flushed with sudden heat, and he bit at Thorin’s lips. It made Thorin pause, just a bit, and he grinned, slow and with promise, but it was enough. 

Bilbo forced himself to pull back, eyes closed as he breathed, breath shuddering. It was getting harder and harder to resist. Bilbo opened his eyes and saw the flash, so quickly hidden, of disappointment and hurt in Thorin’s eyes. 

If only Bilbo could explain why, but whenever he opened his mouth to try, all his fancy words deserted him, drying up on his tongue. 

Thorin smiled anyway, and Bilbo was relieved to see the affection was genuine. “You are working on your tale, then?” he asked, and leaned forward again to lift a page from the desk. Bilbo's eyes fluttered - Thorin smelled like hot steel and leather and hard-earned musk, and Bilbo licked his lips, chasing the scent even after Thorin pulled back. 

Pulling a rather clever pair of spectacles from a pouch at his belt, Thorin muttered to himself as he read Bilbo’s spidery handwriting. Bilbo felt his heart fill with a different kind of warmth, and he braced his head on his hand as he watched Thorin with a fond smile. 

“Oh, come now,” Thorin said, pushing the parchment away and peering at Bilbo over his lenses. “I don’t sound nearly so…so..”

“Pompous?” Bilbo asked. “Arrogant? A horse’s arse?” 

“Oi,” Thorin protested through a laugh, and Bilbo grinned. 

“But you were, though.” Bilbo said, pointing his finger. “Always be nice to the hobbit with the pen,” he grinned, cheeky. “For it is he who controls your reputation.” 

Thorin raised both his eyebrows, as if to say he cared not one whit what a hobbit thought of his reputation, but he could not hold his scowl for long. Gently, he leaned in and pressed his forehead to Bilbo’s before leaning back and placing a tender kiss on the same spot. 

“I must wash. Will you join me for dinner, after?” 

Bilbo smiled. “Of course, my dear,” he said, and as he watched Thorin walk away, his smile slowly faded and he pulled his fingers from his pocket, the weight of the ring falling heavy against his side. 

***

Fill knew it would be a good day when he woke and his knee hurt less than the day before. The gnawing ache in his other leg had faded to a dim pressure, and when he stretched, his muscles moved with him instead of seizing in the cold. It was almost enough for him to believe he might one day regain his old ability. 

Almost. 

Either way, seasons change, and some things are easier to bear in the spring—easier enough that when Dis arrived to wake him at seventh hour, she found him already up and washed, hobbling quickly with his cane around the room to get the kettle on for his morning kafe. He grinned at her. 

“Morning, Mum,” Fili said. 

“You’re up,” Dis said. She was enough of a diplomat to hide her surprise in pleasure, but Fili was learning to move about in such spaces as well. 

“Aye,” he said, pulling a mortar and pestle down from its place on the shelf. He took the mortar with him into his pantry, filling the small bowl with a handful of the aromatic dried and roasted beans, and carrying it back to the counter. On a good day, like today, Fili could walk with the same speed and surety as before; if anything, his limp added to his old swagger. 

“Kafe?” He asked, holding up the mortar before he placed it on the counter. He balanced his cane against the table behind him, and picked up the pestle, grinding the beans. “I can make one cup as easy as two.” 

“Thank you, no,” Dis said. “I refuse to drink kafe without milk, and the goats have yet to make more than for their kids.” 

“Tea, then?” 

Dis shook her head and sat at the table. Fili shrugged and turned back to what he was doing. Once ground, the beans went into the kettle to brew and steep, and Fili grabbed an earthenware mug from its shelf. He had a few such mugs, purchased from a woman of Laketown who made such items from the clay-rich river soil. Collecting it was hard in winter, and dangerous, but they were still the first crafts made in the mountain—human made or not—and Fili felt a sense of pride when he saw them. 

Fili looked over his shoulder at his mother. “You look like you’re here for a reason,” he said. 

Dis raised an elegant eyebrow. She, like many of the others, had forgone tradition in favor of simple work wear, and so her braids were thicker and less elaborate and her face unadorned, but her natural sharp beauty showed through despite it all. “Can’t I just visit my son on this lovely spring morning?” 

Fili snorted. “If you were here just to visit, you wouldn’t be wearing working clothes.” He smiled, softening the blow of his words. 

“A mother worries,” Dis said. 

“And you are right to,” Fili said. “The past few months...” he shook his head, leaning heavily on his cane. It was exhausting, never knowing which way each day would go. He breathed deeply, forcing himself to brighten. “But not today.” 

“No,” Dis agreed. “Not today.” 

The kettle rattled and Fili pulled it from the fire, carefully filling his mug. He added a few spoonfuls of Beorn’s honey, thick and raw, and carried the mug back to the table. 

Fili sat, and blew across the surface of his kafe, and felt, for the first time in well over a year, a sense of peace. 

It was a good morning, warm and easy, and eighth hour found them leaving Fili’s chambers for the great hall. He wasn’t holding open court--it made no sense with so few dwarves in the mountain and everyone’s days preoccupied by the constant rebuilding, but there were meetings and decisions to be made--and it was Fili’s responsibility to manage them. 

Dain was there already, sitting on the floor next to the throne, helm perched on his head and pushed down over his eyes, his booted feet kicked up on a worn footstool. He looked, for all the world, asleep, and Fili knew that was just the way Dain wanted it. Dwalin and Balin were also there, speaking quietly together, and Ori had his lap desk out, his pen moving quickly across the parchment--sketching, probably. Bard was there as well, with Sigrid and Dulcan, the latter looking quite tired. He had been working the night shifts for the past week or so, though that should be over soon so he could rest before the quest began. 

Fili hadn’t seen much of the company--those that weren’t family (or part of the White Council), anyway--and they were still mostly strangers to him. He found that oddly disquieting. It wasn’t like the jobs he and Kili would take, where they were hired to travel with strangers, but Gimli did not seem concerned. “I didn’t know a single soul in my Fellowship,” he had said. “And I ended up married to one!” 

Easing himself onto the throne, Fili rapped his knuckles on the arm above Dain’s head. “Morning, Cousin,” 

“Morning, lad,” Dain said, tipping his helm back to peer up at Fili. “You seem in a fine mood.” 

“I had a good morning,” Fili said, honestly, and Dain grinned wide. 

“Good! That’s good to hear!” Dain lifted his fist, as if he was lifting a mug of ale. “Here’s to many more.” 

Fili laughed, raising his fist as well, and looked out across the hall. The Lady Galadriel had entered with Glorfindel, and the sight of the two tall, bright figures seemed to light the far end of the hall. Galadriel laughed at something Glorfindel said, and Fili found himself smiling. He could easily see why Gimli spoke of the lady with such reverence. As Fili watched, the Lady Dis approached the pair, saying something that made Glorfindel throw his head back, holding his sides as he laughed. The lady grinned at Fili’s mother, and took both of her hands, kissing each cheek and gently tapping foreheads. 

“That’s terrifying,” Thorin said, and Fili started. He hadn’t heard his uncle enter. There was a dull thwack, and when Fili looked, Bilbo had the hand that had swatted Thorin’s arm tucked into his elbow. Thorin was grinning like he had won a competition only he was involved in. “Are you sure we can’t just send the two of them to Mordor? Sauron would never have a chance.” 

“It would take far more than even the combined might of such formidable ladies, I’m afraid,” Gandalf said, coming closer. He usually smelled thickly of pipesmoke, but today the scent was thick enough to choke a raven, and Fili had to blink his eyes several times to keep them from filling with water. 

“Pity,” Thorin commented, dryly. While Thorin’s contempt for the wizard had passed with his sickness, their close quarters all winter had hardly helped their relationship grow. Gandalf, if he was aware, was choosing to ignore Thorin’s bitterness to his face, through Fili was sure that Gandalf went out of his way to pester Thorin. 

A side door opened, and Dori came bustling in, a parchment roll in his fist and an expression like a caldera just before the mount burst, and Fili braced himself. Apparently, the day had begun. It was only when Bilbo started muttering about elevenses that Fili realized that Kili had yet to make an appearance. 

Where in Mahal’s name was his brother?

 

***  
Tauriel fell back against the furs, pale skin flushed like rosy quartz as she breathed, glistening in the firelight. Kili ran a broad hand along her side, feeling his callusing pull and drag against the softness of her skin. Her eyes were still blissfully distant and they fluttered at his touch. He brushed a thumb over her nipple, still drawn up tight, and she gasped, focusing on him at last. She smiled, bright and free, reaching out to cup his face in her hands and pull him in for a kiss. 

Kill went happily, humming against her mouth. The skin on her cheeks and chin were warm, rubbed raw from his beard, and he placed gentle kisses in apology (even though he was actually rather proud. His beard had finally consented to grow, and had filled in thickly over the winter). 

_”Amrâlimê,”_ Kili said, quietly. 

_”Meleth e-Guilen,”_ Tauriel replied, her voice low and clear as a mountain spring. 

Kili’s grin curled at the edges as he watched the firelight twinkle like stars in her eyes. “You amaze me every day,” he said, and to his delight, Tauriel flushed, looking away. “Come now, you cannot be shy!” 

“And why not?” Tauriel returned. “I am not used to such talk.” 

“You will be,” Kili said, brushing her hair from her forehead and rubbing gently at the pointed tip of her ear. She hummed, her eyelids falling heavy and her teeth sinking into the plumped flesh of her lower lip. “For I will tell you every day until you are sick of it.” _Sick of me_ , he thought, and pushed it away. There was no place for such thoughts here. 

Tauriel seemed to hear it anyway, and she pushed herself up on her elbows, insistent. “Never,” she promised.

“Never is a long time for an immortal,” Kili said, his fingers trailing down the side of her face, along her neck to feel the pulse strong under her skin, and down again to play along her collarbone. She took his hand and pressed it to her chest over her heart and between her breasts. It beat like a war drum. 

“ _Guren be ‘ureg,_ ” she said. “For as long as I live, I will love you,” she swore, and Kili grinned and kissed her dearly. For the first time in a long time, Kili was looking forward to the future.


	2. Departures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my amazing beta!

Hobbit clothes were very strange. They fastened with buttons at the waist, instead of a fly, and their waistcoats added little in the way of either warmth or utility. Although Gimli had to admit that at the very least the waistcoats didn’t impede movement (and Dori had found a way to add clever little pockets to the inside where Gimli could hide away various necessities), he found the amount of buttons simply ridiculous. He growled as a tiny button slipped from his fingers again. 

“Hammer and bloody tongs,” Gimli swore, reaching for the small button once more. The vest, which was a yellow and gold brocade, had matching tiny yellow buttons helpfully crafted into tiny acorns courtesy of Bifur, whose eye for detail and unparalleled. However, Bifur had designed the buttons for hobbit fingers, and even Gimli’s nimble dwarvish hands were no match for the tiny slick surfaces. They were going to be late to the meeting, and Gimli was still only halfway dressed. 

“Here,” Legolas said, rising from where he had been sitting and tending his arrows. Gimli grumbled, but dropped his hands, letting Legolas deftly do up his buttons. It took him only a fraction of the time it had for Gimli to close the bottom of the vest, and Gimli bore being dressed like a dwarfing with all the grace he could muster. 

Legolas smoothed down the front of the vest. “There,” he said. “I’m sure Bilbo will agree that you look proper and respectable.” 

Gimli raised an eyebrow. “I feel ridiculous.” 

Gimli stood before the mirror in their room, one hand on his hip the other scratching at the back of his hair. He couldn’t stop fiddling with it, even though the constant reminder hurt. It hurt less every day, however, and Gimli knew one day it would simply be a painful memory. 

“Well if it helps,” Bilbo said from the doorway, and Gimli turned ‘round, surprised. “You look ridiculous.” Bilbo stood, one arm crossed over his chest to grip his elbow. His other hand rested at his chin, his curled fingers brushing his cheek. 

Gimli snorted, dropping his hand. “Thanks,” he muttered. 

“Don’t mention it,” Bilbo said lightly, and then shifted to cross both arms across his chest. His smirk faded. “I am grateful, you know, Gimli. For all of this. I just wish—“ 

Gimli waved him off and Bilbo stumbled to a halt. “Think nothing of it, Bilbo,” Gimli said. “I may whine and moan, aye, but I would do anything to help you. You’re my friend, Bilbo.” Gimli stepped forward, cupping his hands around Bilbo’s upper arms and squeezing gently. It wouldn’t do to accidentally bruise their hobbit, after all. Thorin would kill him. “And named Friend to Dwarves; ’t’would be a lowly bastard indeed who would turn away from you when you were in need.” Bilbo shook his head, as if to deny it, and Gimli leaned in for the punch. “Besides, you’re nearly family.” 

Bilbo flushed the color of his prized tomatoes and sputtered. “I have no idea—“

“Yes, you do,” Gimli countered, poking a finger into Bilbo’s chest. “I’ve seen you and my cousin circling; you’re like a pair of pining buzzards, the both of you.” 

Bilbo spluttered for a moment, and then he sighed, suddenly very weary and looking older than his years. “It’s not that easy, Gimli.” 

Gimli glanced over at Legolas, who was busy packing his gear. There was no chance Legolas couldn’t hear every word they were saying, but it was kind of him to pretend, for Bilbo’s sake. “It never is, when it’s worth it.” Gimli and Legolas had lived through all sorts of hardship, for all that they were rewarded by peace and prosperity, and had done their fair share of pointless pining. 

Bilbo, however, still wouldn’t meet Gimli’s eyes, and Gimli frowned. This could be more than Gimli had first thought. Whispers that, their pageantry aside, the ring would remain in Erebor with Bilbo—and Thorin, rose in Gimli’s mind “Bilbo?”

Shaking his head, Bilbo inhaled sharply through his nose, pasting on a smile. It was a good facsimile, Gimli would give him that, but even though it might pass muster for Shire society, it still wasn’t _real_. 

This was the worst time for Gimli to travel, but before he could press the issue, Bilbo stepped back. “Well, now. Let’s have a look at you for real, shall we?” 

Obligingly, Gimli opened his arms in invitation. Bilbo darted in, quick as a wink, tugging here and there, then retying the lace on the back of the waistcoat. He tutted over the feet, muttering something about “not having _mange_ , for pity’s sake. I have more hair than _that_ ,” but there was little to be done about it now. Gimli took careful note of all the little changes that were made. He doubted Sauron’s spies would know proper Hobbit knot-work, but it was important to Bilbo, and Gimli knew the importance of proper detail. 

Bilbo stepped back, frowning. “Well, you’ll never make for a hobbit of Hobbiton, but you might pass for a hobbit of Bree; one of the Stoor lines, perhaps.” Gimli raised a heavy eyebrow, and Bilbo grinned at him. Cheeky. Still, Bilbo reached into his own pocket: deep, proper dwarven pockets, as Bilbo still dressed in dwarvish style—and likely would while the winds still blew down from the frozen north. Hobbit clothes were made for the Shire climate, not for the winters of Erebor. 

“If I’ve learned anything, as an adventuring hobbit,” Bilbo began, “it’s the importance of a good, solid,” he pulled his hand from his pocket. In his grip were several folded squares of pale green cloth, “pocket handkerchief.” 

Gimli laughed and took the handkerchiefs with a bow. They were fine linen, if obviously man-made, and hand stitched with the small image of an acorn and two small bees. Gimli frowned. “Did you stitch these?”

Bilbo nodded. “Well, yes,” he said. “Busy fingers are the key to a calm mind, after all” he said. “You’ve all given me so much, I…” Bilbo trailed off. “I wanted to return the favor.” 

Gimli pressed the handkerchiefs to his breast and bowed, once more, then tucked them into his pocket. “You do realize,” he said, “That we do so much to thank you; you returned our home to us, Bilbo, and we dwarves have long memories.” 

“Indeed,” Legolas said, joining them at last. “Their respect and their ire can both last centuries beyond the initial incident.” 

Bilbo arched an eyebrow sharply. “You mean like the elves?” he asked, and Legolas grinned. 

“Aye,” Legolas said with a laugh. “But don’t tell. Both sides would deny it so fervently, it may start yet another blood feud.” 

“Nay, not a blood feud,” Gimli said. “Those we save for special occasions.” He winked at Bilbo, who shook his head, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “But a _grudge,_ aye. A grudge can be held for millennia, and no dwarf would bow from its weight.” 

“Oh, is that why you are so short? Are you pressed down by the weight of such grudges?” Legolas asked, and bit his tongue lightly between his teeth. 

“I am not _short_ ” Gimli counted. “You are _too tall._ ” 

Legolas looked to Bilbo for support, but Bilbo just snorted and spread his hands. “I’m afraid I’m with Gimli on this matter. Dwarves are taller than hobbits, it’s true, but they’re still a respectable height.” 

Legolas pressed his hand to his chest, his eyes blinking wide in mock surprise. “Are you saying I’m not respectable?” He asked, and Gimli pulled him down to kiss his cheek. 

“You are a very silly elf,” Gimli said, full of feeling, and was gratified when Legolas flushed pink. 

“Silly or not,” Legolas said, “I do believe Bilbo came to us for a reason.” 

Bilbo cleared his throat. “I did, in fact.” he said. “They’re waiting for you in the throne room. Everyone is ready to leave.” 

“And so are we,” Gimli said, and bent to pick up his pack—made in imitation of Bilbo’s leather satchel from Bad End—already fully packed. Legolas retrieved his own pack, smaller than Bilbo’s and thinner, for it did not need to carry the same in clothing; elves apparently felt the weather less than those burdened with mortality, and thus needed no winter cloaks. 

“I miss my Lorien cloak,” Gimli grumbled, adjusting the clasp and drape of his own cloak, fur lined wool and warm—a gift from the Dwarf King, if anyone got close enough to ask. The Lorien cloak, light as it was, was never too warm or too cold, and it never seemed to pinch his chin the way this cloak seemed determined to do. 

"I miss my bow,” Legolas said, smoothing his hands over the drape of the cape, brushing away the small wrinkles that had developed in the fabric. “But we can only go forward, not back, and who knows? A better cloak may await you at journey’s end,” Legolas teased, and Gimli humphed, pinching his husband’s hip. 

“We ready then?” he asked, and Legolas nodded. Bilbo hesitated for just a moment, but his nod was decisive and sure. With one last look about the room, Gimli turned towards the hallway. Always, it seemed, he was leaving rooms for the last time, and Gimli wished that soon he and Legolas would be able to settle down once more and make a set of humble rooms a true home. 

They were certainly a sight as they walked down the hallway: the hobbit, the dwarf-in-hobbit’s-clothes, and the elf. Others turned to watch them as they passed, and Gimli heard whispers echo behind them. Where once Gimli was sure Bilbo would have hunched his shoulders, now he stood tall, chin up, and let them talk. 

This was the Bilbo that Frodo had spoken of on their quest—fiercely proud and not giving a single, solitary hoot what anyone else thought of him. Gimli bit his lip to hide his smile. He was glad to have him. 

They stopped before the grand doors, closed still from the night before, and Bilbo stepped ahead to speak with the guard, who stood in shadow. As Bilbo neared the shadow moved, and Gimli was only a little surprised to see Dwalin there; the old warrior had spent little time away from Thorin’s side since the battle, and Gimli was surprised to find Dwalin out here and not inside. 

After a moment, however, Dwalin banged loudly thrice, and the doors opened. Gimli strode forward, Legolas as always by his side, and together they stepped into the throne room. 

Like his first quest, it was not a grand send-off. It was early enough, yet, that the sun still not yet risen outside, and it would still be the better part of an hour before the mountain was returned to full bustle. 

Initially, Gimli had spoken out against leaving in the dark—it felt far too clandestine, but it was Glorfindel who had pointed out the need for dramatic behavior. Visibility was important, but so was appearance. If they left as if they were a secret band, more would believe they were a secret band, after all. 

The hall was silent at first, conversation ceasing as the Ringbearer and his double walked into the room. Gimli stopped next to Bilbo before Fili, who sat on his throne with his head already weighed down by his crown and looking far too gobsmacked for a king. Gimli bowed low. 

When he stood, Gimli spread his hands. “Whelp,” he said. “Here I am.” 

***

Legolas looked about the room as covertly as he could; it was not his first time in this hall, but the time he had spent there was not for many years yet—or perhaps it would be better to say that it would _not be_ for many years yet…or even that it was _many years ago._ Anyway, the room was not well known to him, and he had long been curious about dwarven design. 

The room (unlike its cousin above them, whose spanning paths and dizzying open spaces were meant to inspire awe) was a room intended to be used _among the people_ and among them only. Legolas knew how odd it was to have non-dwarves in these lower levels of the mountain, to let them see the secret and sacred images carven into the very walls. 

And carved they were—all throne rooms were intimidating in their own way, after all, and while this room certainly felt _warmer_ than the one above, it was just as clearly not meant for _outsiders_. The writing that Legolas could see was all in runes, as old and ancient as the people themselves. Gimli had mentioned once, during their days in the havens, that the language of his people had been a gift from Mahal himself, created when the dwarves themselves were created away from the knowing eye of Illuvatar. That the language was known to Illuvatar anyway, and that Illuvatar allowed the dwarves to keep the speech given to them by their creator, spoke much of the nature of the Valar. 

Still, the dwarves had learned to keep these letters and this tongue secreted away from the world, like a child hides an injury, fearful of the hurt growing worse. 

( _”Our heritage is not a wound!”_ Legolas heard in his mind, so clearly as if Gimli himself had actually said it. True, and not a thing to be ashamed of to be sure, but there was hurt there—from the way the Valar and Illuvatar’s first children reacted—all the same.) 

But it was not only runes carved in the rock that made these walls; too, there were images—the only ones of their kind that Legolas had ever seen. 

Dwarves, as Gimli had explained, appreciate the skill required to carve perfectly straight lines and intricate designs—the more delicate the carving, the more skilled the craftsman, after all. 

Gimli had gone quiet then. _There are still some things, my husband, that are difficult to speak of, even if as my husband it is your right to know of them. There are lessons taught to us young, and never spoken of again, except in the most sacred of our ceremonies. Do you understand? ___

__Legolas hadn’t understood, but he _thought_ he had, so he had nodded, drawing in to hold Gimli’s hands—broad and strong like a gnarled root of an oak tree. _ _

___It is long held wisdom that the divide between the elves and the dwarves came about because we are not both the children of Illuvatar—and I do not doubt it, for I have seen with my own eyes the competition between kin when the eldest son is in competition with his cousin._ Legolas started and Gimli began to laugh. _Never heard it in those terms before? Well it is true, is it not? We are the children of Mahal, who is kin to Illuvatar…perhaps cousins is a bit too close. Perhaps a son to a nephew? _Gimli had waved it off. _It matters not. You have heard the story of our creation?____ _

____Mahal, impatient for the coming of the firstborn and wishing for someone to teach and speak with, had created the dwarves in secret. Illuvatar’s wrath upon his discovery of the dwarves had been fierce, and Mahal—Aule—had bowed before him, offering to strike down his children._ _ _ _

____The dwarves had cowered in fear._ _ _ _

____But Illuvatar was wise, and asked _why_. When he was certain that Aule had not acted from malice, but had simply desired to be like Illuvatar the way a child imitates a parent, he had been merciful and breathed true life into the dwarves even as he ordered them to sleep in the stones—for none could be first before the elves. _ _ _ _

_____To create the likeness of another is our most sacred and our most forbidden act—to do so is to be like our creator, but must only be performed by a craftsman of true purpose—for if the craftsman’s desire is flawed, so, too, will be the final image. A craftsman worthy of such a craft does so out of fierce love of the craft, not the product of the crafting. Therefore, to see the likeness of others in art is reserved for the secret places—the sacred places of power_. _ _ _ _

____Legolas found his attention drawn back and again to the carvings on the wall—deeply in shadow (so deep that Legolas was certain only the dwarves saw them clearly, and perhaps thought that only they could; the ability of the dwarves to see in the dark was well known), yet flickering in the firelight as if possessed of their own unique life._ _ _ _

____Movement by the throne drew Legolas’s attention back to the matter at hand._ _ _ _

____Thorin, who looked a bit wide-eyed and yet still far too amused, carefully reached over and shut his son’s mouth with his finger. It was enough to shock Fili back to himself._ _ _ _

____“Cousin, your dedication to the course is well marked,” Fili began, and then cleared his throat. “Gimli, your sacrifice is—“_ _ _ _

____“Aye, I know,” Gimli cut him off. “No need to dwell on it.”_ _ _ _

____Legolas placed a his hand on Gimli’s shoulder; his love was harder than stone from tension, practically thrumming like the pulled line of a bow, and Legolas urged him to calm. Taking a deep breath, Legolas felt Gimli settle. On his throne, Fili smiled._ _ _ _

____“It is good to see that you have lost none of your spirit, Gimli,” Fili said, wry. He looked out over those assembled. “You’re going to need it.”_ _ _ _

____“You don’t have to tell me,” Gimli muttered, but then stood straight as the Lady Galadriel came near. Gimli bowed low and Legolas touched his breast with his open hand, a greeting befitting esteemed family. “My lady,” he said._ _ _ _

____“My champion,” she returned, and Legolas could hear the laughter dancing in her voice—but not mocking, never mocking. Apparently, Gimli heard it as well, for her answered her with a rueful grin._ _ _ _

____“Aye, I make a poor hobbit, I know,” he said, and went to tuck his thumbs into his belt. He caught himself halfway through, and gripped the lapels of his coat instead._ _ _ _

____“You can eat like one,” Bilbo chimed in, “And you’ve a taste for smoking, which will take you far. I dare say you’ve got a ear for town gossip, and your pretty words would make you very popular with the right sort of people—and give you the ability to tear the hide off those who think they are, but aren’t.” Bilbo sniffed. “Good gentlehobbits are not concerned with the appearance of wealth or good breeding, they simply *have it*—by birth or not.” He cleared his throat when he realized all eyes were on him. “Though I suppose you don’t have to pass as a hobbit from _Hobbiton_ —not to those you’d meet out here, anyway.” _ _ _ _

____Gimli snorted, and nudged Bilbo with his elbow. “You’d find yourself a bit hard to fit in now, too.”_ _ _ _

____Bilbo favored Gimli with a sardonic look. “What makes you think I fit in before?” he asked, and waved a hand dismissing the thought. “I faked it well enough, I supposed, but there was a _reason_ Gandalf chose me, Gimli. It just took me time to realize it myself.” _ _ _ _

____“And you did an excellent job of that,” Gandalf said, coming to stand with the Lady. The wizard smiled at her, and Legolas was amused to note that even the _Istari_ were taken by Galadriel’s grace. _ _ _ _

____“Aye,” Gimli agreed, and a wicked grin grew, flashing his dimples for the world to see. Legolas felt a bit week in the knees at that. “You—“_ _ _ _

____Whatever Gimli was going to say was cut off suddenly as the doors opened once more, Kili and Tauriel walking through, still taking in low voices to each other. Noticing the attention of the room, Kili stopped still. Tauriel flushed nearly the color of her hair as they bowed to the room._ _ _ _

____There was something about Tauriel—the way she moved, perhaps? Or her ease within the stone-- that hadn’t been there before. _Something_ was different, though Legolas wasn't sure he would be able to tell what without a closer look. _ _ _ _

____King Fili covered his face with his hand, as if warding off a headache. Kili looked contrite for a moment, before schooling his features and shoving everything behind a happy grin. It was quick, but Legolas saw the look Tauriel gave him—and really it was frustrating not being able to tell what exactly was different—and knew there was something more going on behind that expression. Legolas, unfortunately, had some idea what that might be, and he felt for the young prince. To find happiness in the face of another’s sadness…_ _ _ _

____Kili joined Fili, Lady Dis, Dain, and Thorin around the throne, greeting his family enthusiastically. Tauriel looked about the room before coming to stand at Legolas’s side, opposite Gimli. Legolas raised an eyebrow at her, but she only flushed a shade darker and met him look for look—a challenge._ _ _ _

____But over _what?__ _ _ _

____Legolas looked around the room at the assembled parties. Nearly everyone from Thorin’s company was there, and it was no surprise; Gimli was one of them, and he was going off on a quest. That Balin was also leaving them to face the same dark halls that had sealed his fate in another life was not lost on them, however, and the company—especially Ori, who was also receiving some last minute advice from Balin as he would ultimately serve as Fili’s seneschal—hovered around him._ _ _ _

____During the battle, Ori had caught an Orcish blade across his face. He’d been lucky to keep the eye, though the scar pulled the side of his face down and, as he confided to Gimli out of Dori’s hearing, his vision in that eye was greatly lessened. “I’ll need specs like Balin once we get the glassworks unburied. My left eye is fine, but my right..I’ll need two different lenses!” Ori said, shaking his head to sweep the hair from his eyes. It was finally being allowed to grow, and Ori used the greater length to hide his face when he could._ _ _ _

____The wound alone would have been dangerous enough, but orc weapons are far from clean even not during a battle, and infection had set in. With the chaos of the aftermath, Ori had delayed in reporting the way his wound ached until he near-collapsed from fever. As a result, Oin had to move quickly in removing the dead flesh—_ _ _ _

____Legolas had seen many horrors in life, but the reality of Dwarvish field medicine he found far harder to look at. Elves, when they were wounded thus, suffered from a fire in their blood, or a black creeping like twisted vines under the skin. They did not puff and swell the way of men and dwarves._ _ _ _

____The result was a hollow on the side of Ori’s face that twisted his features further. It was a warrior’s mark to be sure, and Legolas knew Ori’s companions had done all they could to ease Ori’s mind about it—even Dwalin had given it his turn—but still Ori hid the mark as best he could with the fold of his braids and the fall of his hair, and Legolas worried for him—and worried more, because Gimli was worried as well._ _ _ _

____“Giving him a job to do, responsibilities to handle, may just be the best thing for him,” Gimli had said to Legolas when they had first heard of Ori’s promotion. “Give him confidence and keep him from brooding. Ori’s got a mind for this sort of thing; the Mountain will be running like it never fell in no time, mark my words.”_ _ _ _

____Judging from the look in Ori’s good eye, Legolas wouldn’t be surprised if the mountain was running _better_ by the time they were able to return. From the look on Nori’s face as he looked about the room, he would make sure of it. (Nori had never quite turned away from the more…shadowed side of life, even with the gold he’d earned as part of the company. His talents had been turned to overseeing a network of whispers, to keep Dain apprised of the goings on in the mountain that would be otherwise kept from the king. The position had suited him well, and Gimli had spoken to him about assuming that position this time around as well). _ _ _ _

____Bofur, with Bombur and Bifur, were keeping an eye on Gloin, who stood almost apart from the rest, watching his son with keen eyes. Gloin had come far in accepting his son as he was, and accepting Legolas as his son’s chosen, but a single winter was not enough to change the thoughts of years, or the attitudes of a lifetime. Legolas wasn’t sure if the separation would help, but he hoped it would. Watching Gloin struggle was not easy for Gimli._ _ _ _

____But the company were not the only dwarves in attendance. Dain was there, sitting next to Fili with a small entourage of soldiers, including Ster, their representative from the Iron Hills._ _ _ _

____If Legolas was honest with himself, there was something about Ster that concerned him. The dwarf was taciturn, even by their standards, speaking little and saying even less. If Ster smiled or laughed, then Legolas had never seen it happen. It was... unnerving. (Then, Legolas would be reminded of his thoughts of Gimli at their first meeting, and was quite ashamed of the turning of his thoughts. He would not make assumptions, or judge Ster before they could prove the mettle of their character. It helped, however, that even Gimli grumbled after speaking with Ster)._ _ _ _

____Most of the Greenwood elves had left in the wake of the battle, returning to their woods and leaving only a small contingent in the mountain to continue to help the rebuilding efforts, and to be council to Legolas and Ceruleador. Legolas, as per his habit, often ignored said council, but he knew it was a comfort to Ceruleador, who remembered all too well the damage a dragon could do—he being one of the few who had returned with Thranduil from the War of Wrath._ _ _ _

____Of the elves of the Greenwood, Curuleador was one of the few who was obviously descended from the exiled high elves, a tie made apparent by his dark skin and hair. Gimli had professed some amazement at an elf darker than himself, than his mother and her kin, for the tales of elves had always painted them pale as moonlight. Gimli had looked Legolas over, glowing faintly as he was in reflected starlight. “And yourself haven't really challenged that opinion.”_ _ _ _

____Legolas had shrugged. “His parents were born across the sea, in the time of the trees and the sun—many who were born then were colored thus. I am from those who did not sail, and so we retain the colors of starlight and those things that were born in twilight.”_ _ _ _

____Also hovering near the rear of the room, as if uncertain of their welcome, stood a party of the men of Dale. Bard was with them, and Bianca, though Bard’s children were most likely still abed. Dulcan stood with Brig, speaking to her softly with his hands on her shoulders. Brig was smiling at him fondly, the way a child does to a parent who is repeating the same instructions for the fourth time._ _ _ _

____As Legolas watched, Curuleador separated from his party to join the small group of Men. He stopped behind Dulcan, waiting for a moment for the opportunity to speak. Duncan startled when he did, whirling with a hand to his weapon—only to pause halfway and glare at the elf. Curuleador smirked and a moment later, Dulcan turned back to a giggling Brig and pointed at the elf._ _ _ _

____“And watch out for the fey folk!” He said, loud enough for Legolas to hear, and Legolas had to smother his laughter._ _ _ _

____“Something funny, love?” Gimli asked, and Legolas’s attention returned to his immediate surroundings._ _ _ _

____Legolas grinned. “I believe that Curuleador and Dulcan are fast becoming friends.”_ _ _ _

____“That will serve them well,” Glorfindel said, coming up from behind. He, too, was late to the gathering, but Legolas could see of no reason why. Knowing Glorfindel, he was just as likely to have overslept as he was to have been called away on vital business. _The key,_ Bilbo had whispered to him long ago, _is not to ask. Or, rather, to refuse to say. People will draw their own conclusions._ _ _ _ _

____It was a wonder that Glorfindel approved of this plan._ _ _ _

____“I believe we’re all gathered,” Lady Dis said to Fili, and Fili nodded._ _ _ _

____“If we could begin,” King Fili said, and waited as all chatter ceased and all everyone turned to him. If he was unnerved by such rapid and unwavering attention, it never showed. Instead, wisely, he waited in ready silence until the chamber cleared of even the last echo._ _ _ _

____It was a commanding move, one that was already setting Fili apart from others of his line._ _ _ _

____Fili sat tall in his throne, the Raven Crown glittering above his brow. It looked heavy; it _was_ heavy, but Fili bore its weight well. “It has been three months since the Battle of Five Armies, as it has been so named.” He looked over to Gimli, who had first said the name, and Bilbo, who had written it down in the first place. Gimli lifted his chin while Bilbo fiddled with his buttons, smiling tightly. “In the aftermath of battle, with wounds still fresh, many decisions were made.” He paused for a moment, breathing deeply. _ _ _ _

____“I know it as well as any that time heals many things; so, too, does time change things. The life we had then is not the life we have now.”_ _ _ _

____Gandalf straightened at Fili’s words, looking as if he might chime in, but he held himself back when Galadriel smiled as if Fili’s words had touched a secret thought in her heart that she was glad to see spoken._ _ _ _

____“I call forward the Company of Nine, whose tasks are many, but first to confuse our Enemy and draw his Eye away from the One Ring.”_ _ _ _

____Legolas stepped forward, his hand reaching for Gimli’s automatically, and was pleased to find Gimli’s hand waiting. Gimli squeezed Legolas’s fingers tightly, and Legolas relished the warmth of that hand, that warded off the chill. Gandalf and Glorfindel stood to Gimli’s other side, with Ster stepping away from Dain to join them. Tauriel stepped away, standing awkwardly between the dais and the company of Greenwood elves, and Curuleador took her place. Duncan, Brig, and Balin joined his other side._ _ _ _

____“Now,” Fili said, “As the time is upon you, I ask again: Are you willing to see this deed done, before you are sworn to your next tasks? There is no shame in refusing to risk your life in this endeavor; we will all have many opportunities to fight in the coming years.”_ _ _ _

____There was a pause as the room considered Fili’s words. They were wise, and Legolas was reminded of Elrond, who would take no oaths from the original Fellowship._ _ _ _

____Gimli snorted. “It’s a bit too late for me to back out now,” he said, and the room rippled with soft laughter. The corner of Gimli’s mouth twitched. So that had been his intention. He breathed deep, letting go of Legolas’s hand to step forward and stand tall._ _ _ _

____“I said at the start of my first quest that he is faithless who turns away when the road darkens. I hold by my words even now, for the road before us is very dark indeed, and I intend to walk that path.” Gimli bowed, and though no trick of the Lady’s Gift showed Gimli in his older glory, as it had during the battle, Legolas was sure he saw it anyway._ _ _ _

____Legolas stepped forward. “My place is with my husband, wherever he fares, but even were that not so, I would not change my path from the one so set before me. I, too, will see the quest done.”_ _ _ _

____“As will I,” Gandalf said, joining them. “There are many places I need to be, and not enough me to be there; yet I feel that _here_ is where I am needed the most, for soon I will be needed _there_ and I will be near when the day comes.” _ _ _ _

____“That’s not cryptic at all,” Legolas heard Bofur say, possibly louder than he had intended, and bit back a smile at the sound of Dori and Ori shushing him in matching tones._ _ _ _

____Ster stepped forth. “My word was given. I will go.”_ _ _ _

____Glorfindel stepped forth. “My mind has not changed. It has been long years since I last saw the Golden Wood, and even if my courage fails me, I would consider that well worth it.”_ _ _ _

____“And I,” Balin said, stepping forth. “I have no fond memories of Khazad-Dum, which is now called Moria. The Battle of Azanulbizar is one of the darkest in my memory.” His hands fisting, Balin went on. “I will see our ancestral home returned to our people. No more shall the greatest of our realms be called a pit. I will travel to the wood, and from there to battle our darkness.”_ _ _ _

____“It will less dark, now,” Curulaedor said. “As will be the breeding grounds in the North. Long have I wrestled with my purpose, for I desire most to go North and join the fight there. But South will I travel, for the war North will hinge on the Eye drawn South.”_ _ _ _

____Dulcan stepped forth. “What he said,” Dulcan said, hooking his thumb at Curuleador. It surprised Legolas to laugh, and Gimli nearly barked with it. Dulcan seemed pleased with the reaction and bounced on his heels. “I’ve been King Bard’s right hand for years,” he began, and Legolas heard Bard’s heavy sigh. It seemed the King of Dale still had yet to fully accept his title. “It doesn’t feel right to leave him now, but I gave my word to watch over Brig,” Brig rolled her eyes, though she smiled. “And If I don’t know, Bard would run away to avoid being King, and I can’t let him do that.”_ _ _ _

____“Oi,” Bard said softly, though Legolas wasn’t sure if it was because Dulcan’s gentle mocking held no truth—or held too much._ _ _ _

____Brig stepped forward. “It’s my boat,” she said with a shrug, but didn’t elaborate more past a bright grin. Next to her, Dulcan rolled his eyes and looked as if he was praying to the Valar to give him strength. Fili ran his hand over his beard to hide his smile, though he regained his composure quickly._ _ _ _

____“Then we are agreed,” King Fili said. “You nine shall accompany the Lady Galadriel back to the Golden Woon, and there shall the great eye focus his attention.” He stood, standing upright with ease though Thorin and Lady Dis both turned to him, ready to steady him if need be. “Then what blessings I may bestow, I lay upon you. Go with the favor of Erebor and the Dwarves of the North. _”Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal!”_ ” Legolas bit his tongue as several of the dwarves grumbled about Fili’s use of their secret tongue, but Fili paid them no mind. It seemed as if Fili planned to be a different sort of king. “May we meet again with the grace of Mahal.” _ _ _ _

____Gimli bowed low, and Legolas followed suit, the entire company showing their respect to the King of Erebor._ _ _ _

____***_ _ _ _

____The formalities done, Company gathered their things and followed Dwalin out of the chamber and down to the docks. Fill watched them go, and tried to ignore the pounding of his heart._ _ _ _

____“Farewell cousin,” Fili said. “May luck follow you."_ _ _ _

____***_ _ _ _

____Deep beneath Erebor ran the River Running—that which the elves called Celduin. The River began high above Ravenhill as a mountain spring that gained size as it trickled down, running under the ice into the rock itself to emerge as a slow river in the heat beneath the mountain. Tales said that the river was first discovered when the digging had breached the chamber, high above the water._ _ _ _

____(Tales also spoke of the spirits that lived in the low fog that lay across the waters, but Gimli thought the less that was said of those when he was forced to spend his time there, the better)._ _ _ _

____There the first Dwarves of Erebor had worked, carving free the rock to a height that let them sail ships beneath the mountain if they so wished. The rocky shores became docks, and a small fleet of merchant ships still sailed._ _ _ _

____Well, had sailed. The Dragon got most of them long ago; they burned adrift on the river as the merchant dwarves fled to the water. Those that remained rotted through, and many sank to the bottom of the river. It would take some time to raise those wrecks, especially in the icy cold mountain waters._ _ _ _

____Now, however, the docks had been filled with the boats of the men of Dale, who had sailed what few ships remained upstream to dock in the safety under the mountain—safe from the winter storms, and safe from the ice._ _ _ _

____Gimli’s father fell into step with them as they climbed down the long and winding stairway that led to the river’s entrance deep below. He didn't speak, for they had already said their goodbyes, but he walked next to Gimli all the same, a silent presence of strength._ _ _ _

____It was a great comfort._ _ _ _

____It was not long before they came at last to the docks, entering the chamber from high above and winding their way down the far wall. The chamber was lit by the dawning sun as it peered through the open entrance to the river and was reflected off many mirrors._ _ _ _

____Despite the early hours, the chamber was busy—Fishermen are up before the dawn, after all, and there was much work to be done._ _ _ _

____Those with the skill had been tasked with building more ships—small enough for speed but large enough to carry cargo. These were to be trading ships, after all. There weren't many left, but new shipwrights were being trained as the build continued, and the fleet of merchant sailors had nearly doubled in size. The rest had put their efforts towards repairing the ships of the old fleet, bringing the waterlogged boats back to peak shape._ _ _ _

____Bifur, of all dwarves, had taken an interest in the ships. The war had taken much from him, and the axe which had been lodged in his brain had been torn free, leaving him without speech and often without a clear presence in the _present_ —to Gimli’s regret, Bifur’s fate was much akin to before. The difference lay, however, in the presence of the great healers of the elves. Lord Elrond had spent much time with Bifur before the Lord of Imladris left once more for his halls, and Bifur showed the signs of one who had spent long hours with elven magic. _ _ _ _

____His speech was still slow, if it was there, and there was less Khudzul even than was before, but his fingers could still speak what his mouth could not—and more, his fingers could carve._ _ _ _

____Bifur, watching the ships and the play of light off the water, would whittle and carve from wood and create little floating toys. At first, these toys were of dwarven boats. Then, Bifur crafted the boats of men and of elves—dainty little things, like leaves on the water, but seaworthy all the same._ _ _ _

____Then, Bifur had begun to _create_. _ _ _ _

____Tall ships, long ships, ships powered by coal and steel and paddles. Ships of deep water and ships for rivers and ships for marshland. Bifur carved them all, and Bofur did what he could to bring the little fleet to life. It was enough to draw the attention of all in the mountain to lived upon the water, and the first full-scale model of one of Bofur’s designs—a boat like a pillion, armored and fast—was under construction at the far end of the port._ _ _ _

____Their boat, however, was docked near the entranceway._ _ _ _

____The boat had initially belonged to Brig’s father and had passed to her mother when her father had died. Now the boat belonged to Brig._ _ _ _

____The boat had more in common with the pirate ships of the corsairs than Bard’s barge, and as they came closer, Gimli could see the damage the dragon had wrought._ _ _ _

____While Gimli was sure the boat was seaworthy, there were still several scorched marks along the hull, several badly damaged areas already replaced with fresh wood. The paint had peeled from undamaged hull, and the bare spots had been patched with pitch. Even the sail had not escaped damage, and there were several patches that would enable the sail to still catch the wind._ _ _ _

____Either way, the ship was big enough for the company, if only just._ _ _ _

_____Besides,_ Gimli thought to himself. _You only have to make it to the Old Forest Road._ From there, they would cut across Mirkwood to the Anduin and follow that river south once more into Lorien. _ _ _ _

_____Soon, you’ll again see the Golden Wood, a sight you had never before thought you’d see_. It was nearly enough to make Gimli forget that he was dyed and dressed as a hobbit for their journey. _ _ _ _

____Nearly._ _ _ _

____“Lad,” Gloin began, stopping suddenly. Gimli stopped and turned to him. Many of the others were saying their own goodbyes, and Gimli had to blink back hard tears. They had cried for each other earlier! He did not have it in him to cry now._ _ _ _

____Still, Gloin reached out and pulled Gimli into a tight hug. Pulling back, he knocked their heads together, resting his forehead on Gimli’s._ _ _ _

____“Come back to me,” Gloin said. “My wee warrior, you come back home.”_ _ _ _

____Gimli closed his eyes. He couldn’t promise that. No one could. After they arrived at Lorien, they were aimed for Rohan, and then for Gondor. No—Gimli would make no promises—not even ones he fully intended to keep. When going into the unknown, it was all too easy for even the best intentioned oaths to break._ _ _ _

____Instead, Gimli squeezed his father tighter._ _ _ _

____“I’ll miss you, too, Da.”_ _ _ _

____Gimli just hoped that it was enough._ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like what I do, come find me on [tumblr!](scarletjedi.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Amrâlimê - my love  
> Meleth e-Guilen - love of my life  
> Guren be ‘ureg - my heart is like your heart - part of elven wedding vows.


End file.
